


Having a Blast

by filthy_rat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Fluff without Plot, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Smoking, Someday, there's gonna be a smut chapter, this is incredibly pointless but have it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 04:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12763008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthy_rat/pseuds/filthy_rat
Summary: You and Jamison Fawkes are old drinking buddies. Your nights are spent arm in arm, exploring the various bars and pubs the city has to offer. There's no one else that can match you shot for shot, and there's no one else you'd rather have watching your back.





	Having a Blast

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh have it

Jamison is your favorite drinking buddy, and he’s been a staple in every pub crawl you’ve been on for the last couple of years. He’s the only one that you know of that can keep up with you, really. When the sun goes down, the pair of you flit from bar to bar, and he easily matches you shot for shot. You’re both experienced at this game, but it’s always a competition to see who can go the longest. Jamison usually wins. And even though the demented asshole eagerly picks fights over the slightest of insults, there’s no one you’d rather have escorting you from spot to spot in town.

Of course, things don’t always go according to plan.

“Well, _that’s_ a fine how-do-you-do!” Jamison says with a high-pitched cackle as he clumsily picks himself up from where he had landed after being bodily removed from the bar by the bouncer. “Shit, gotta go and throw me out just cause some fuckin’ drongo complained…” Tongue sticking out and upper lip curled into an obscene snarl, he grabs his crotch with his prosthetic hand, rudely gesturing to the front of the offending building and the bouncer who had tossed him. The large man simply ignores you both.

Giggling wildly, you latch onto his elbow, the both of you teetering on unstable drunken legs as you collect yourselves on the sidewalk. “You _threatened him_ with a knife, Jamie,” you say, barely able to contain your laughter long enough to speak.

“What, this lil pig-sticker?” he asks, throwing his arm around your shoulders and fishing out the switchblade he carries from the pocket of his jeans. With a flourish, he snaps the keen blade out, allowing it to glint in the neon lights of the street. A wicked grin curves his lip as he brandishes it. “This ain’t a _knife,_ babe,” he says, matter-of-factly, and he shoots you a suggestive wink. Oh no. He snaps the switchblade shut, returns it to his jeans pocket, and from depths of his leather jacket, he produces a large bowie knife, as long as his forearm. How in the actual _fuck?_ Has he had that the whole time? “Now _this_ is a knife!”

“For fuck’s sake, Jamie!” you say, half-laughing, and you pull away, letting him sway on his own two feet. The bouncer is now eyeing him and the large knife with increasing suspicion, and you’re not in the mood to explain to the police why your friend is brandishing a weapon. As you start walking backward down the street, Jamison hurriedly stuffs the knife back into his jacket, and half-runs to catch up.

“I wasn’t gonna do shit, babe, you know me. All talk,” he says defensively, again flinging his lanky arm around the back of your neck as he falls into step with you.

You roll your eyes, slipping your arm around his slender waist as you walk. “I swear it’s like you think I don’t know you, Fawkes.”

He pulls an exaggerated pout, flashing you with those puppy dog eyes that pull your heartstrings even when he uses them in jest. “Whippin’ out the last name, ey? Guess that’s how I know I’m in deep shit. What can I do to get back into your good graces, majesty?”

Your arm drops from around his waist, and you hip check him a bit rougher than intended. “Buy the next three rounds, asshole.”

“Done.”

Tonight, Jamison taps out from your little unspoken competition unusually early. Some rando starts chatting you up at the bar, and it just doesn’t sit right from the beginning. Now, you’re your own person, capable of making your own decisions, but this guy is utterly insatiable. He buys you drink after drink, pressing them into your hands with a flirtatious whisper and a wink, while Jamison only watches on with a silent scowl. He steals your attention for nearly three hours, flashing Jamison ugly smirks when you’re distracted. Eventually, you try to politely disengage from the endless conga line of whiskey shots, and that’s when things really go pear-shaped. The guy grabs your wrist, rough and angry, and _demands_ at least a blowjob for his time and money wasted. You fight back against his grip, but the whiskey has taken its toll, and this guy is a lot stronger than he looks.

Jamison intervenes, and the resulting altercation leaves him sporting a fat lip and a fresh bruise on his cheek, but he’s the one standing in the end. Snarling a string of curses, he spits a mouthful of blood onto the limp body of your would-be assaulter, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. There’s a cold, angry look on his face that you’ve never seen before, but the moment he catches your eye, the expression softens, and he just looks relieved.

“Jamie!” In gratitude, you lurch towards him, throwing your arms around his neck in a tight embrace. He gives you a little one-armed squeeze around the middle.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

You nod, silently folding yourself deeper into his arms. As he hugs you tight, the firm outline of the bowie knife in his jacket presses against you and sends an icy thrill down your spine. This could’ve gone very differently, and you’re not sure how to feel about it.

The two bouncers are closing in now, ready to drag you both physically from the venue, but there’s no need. Without looking at either of them, Jamison turns and guides you from the building. Time to call it a night.

One motel booking later, and the pair of you stumble into your room. It’s cheap but comfortable, nothing really extraordinary. There’s no way you’re going to try to get home now. Not in the state you’re in. And _man,_ are you both in a state. Rowdy, raucous laughter trails after you both as you make your way to the room, the earlier unpleasantness already forgotten. You’re all hands and clumsy, leaden legs, leaning heavily against him as he guides you both down the hall. Jamison has taught you some drinking songs, and you’re loudly belting them, off-key, as he fumbles with the room card.

In a tangled, drunken jumble of limbs, you both trip over yourselves, kick the door shut behind you, and collapse onto the nearest bed, exuberant laughter ringing in your ears. Jamison is atop you, his scrawny weight warm and not unwelcome. Helplessly, you both burst into another fit of drunken laughter as his head droops to your shoulder. For a few breathless seconds, the pair of you laugh and cackle and howl until your ribs ache and stitches in your side render you both immobile.

Gulping air when he at last regains control of himself, Jamison lifts his head from your collarbone, grinning that crooked grin down at you. Now is the point when the press of his body against yours really sinks in. Of their own accord, your fingers coil in the neck of his tank top. Judging from the dazed expression steadily growing on his face, your closeness is beginning to dawn on him, too. Your gaze shifts from the bruise on his cheekbone to the cut on his lip, and a surge of guilt rises in your chest. You put on your best seductive face and smile up at him.

“Mm… Jamie.”

“Hm?”

“I never did thank you… for coming to my rescue.”

The lopsided grin returns, but there’s a wary hesitation to it now. “No, I guess you didn’t.”

“...Kiss me.”

Bushy eyebrows shooting up, he blinks several times in rapid succession. “What? I-I dunno… I shouldn’t,” he says, his voice a whisper. Nevertheless, he wets his lips. Automatically, your eyes flick down to the glimpse of tongue that peeks out.

Your gaze meets his. “Why not?”

“‘Cause I’m drunk, and you’re fuckin’ _shitfaced_ and it just… wouldn’t be right,” he says, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, brow furrowed. But it seems he's conflicted. As he speaks, the backs of his long, slender fingers brush against your cheekbone, and a little shiver of pleasure chases his touch. Even when he’s drunk and trying to resist your clumsy seduction, he’s so gentle with you. A strange, squirmy feeling blossoms in your chest.

You shift a little beneath him, trying to alleviate the press of his bony hip into yours. “Just one… little kiss?” you ask sweetly, pulling him down by the collar of his tank top until your lips are inches apart. He doesn’t pull away, but neither does he close the distance. The scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke clings to his breath as it ghosts across your skin. Your head swims from drink and lust and _him,_ but he gently pries your fingers from his tank top. A rueful smile curves his lips.

“Ah, we both know it won’t end with just ‘one little kiss’, babe.”

You frown and tilt up your chin in defiance. “You don’t know that.”

“I think it’s kinda obvious.”

“What’s so obvious? Are you trying to say that you’re just _so good_ at kissing that I’ll jump right into your pants? That’s bullshit, Jamie. ‘Cause maybe you’re a shitty kiss —“

Suddenly his lips are upon yours, cutting off your playful retort in a rough, breathtaking kiss. With a sharp inhale through your nose, you tilt your head to one side, deepening the kiss just a fraction. His teeth drag against your lower lip, slow and sharp, and a stilted moan escapes you. Fuck, how's he doing this to you? Again, your fingers curl in the neck of his tank top, pulling him closer, desperate for more. His chapped lips move against yours, his fingers slide to cup the nape of your neck, you can’t _think_ properly. Maybe that’s just the alcohol, though… But oh, his lips... When your thigh hooks around his waist, however, he withdraws with a groan of restraint and an apologetic look in his eyes.

“Fuck, see what I mean?” he says in a smug but tortured voice. The lopsided smirk is hardened now, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. “Now… ya got your little kiss. That’s all you’re gettin’. Close your eyes and go to sleep,” he says, and begins pushing himself onto all fours.

“Wait,” you mumble, hungry fingers latching onto the lapel of his leather jacket. “Stay.”

“C’mon, babe, I _can’t_. Lemme go.”

“ _Please._ ” Under normal circumstances, you’d be ashamed for begging so plaintively, but you’re too drunk to care. He’s barely even inches away and you feel so cold. You mourn the loss of his warm body pressing against yours already. The intimacy of his closeness is all your drunk mind craves, and you’ll do anything to keep it. “Please.”

A low, resigned sigh escapes him. “Alright, alright, fuck’s sake. Gimme a minute, then…” And he crawls off you, leaving your field of vision. For what feels like _several_ minutes, you lay there in a drunken, sleepy haze while the room spins around you. Through the magic that is alcohol, you kind of forget what it is you’re doing. Grinning a little to yourself, you hum a few wordless notes, a tune to an older song you heard on the radio that night. Slowly, your hums give way to mumbled singing, steadily raising in volume.

“Taking all you down with me… explosives duct-taped to my spine, nothing’s gonna change my mind…” you croon under your breath, trying in vain to pull yourself out of the bulky motorcycle jacket you’re wearing without actually getting up. It’s not going to work. Curse this planet’s gravitational pull. Unsteadily, you push yourself into a sitting position, tugging in frustration at the thick sleeve. After a few seconds of struggling, you pull one arm free of the jacket’s confines and turn your scattered attention to unlacing your boots.

“What the fuck are you doin’?” says a voice, and Jamie’s form reappears into your blurred vision, expression exasperated, an unlit cigarette between his lips. “If you fuckin’ chunder all over this bed, babe, I ain’t cleanin’ it up,” he mutters, and patiently helps you out of your jacket.

“Where did you go? You were gone forever,” you say accusatorily, and he shoots you an impatient scowl as he tosses your jacket onto the other bed.

“Was gone for 30 seconds to piss and get a durry, ya dipstick,” he replies, but you’re not really listening. You’ve suddenly noticed that he’s not wearing his jacket or his tank top anymore. He’s stripped down to just his ripped jeans and socks, and oh, do your eyes wander. As he unlaces your boots for you and pulls them off, you hungrily take in the details of him you’ve never seen before, from the crook of his elbow where flesh becomes metal, to the trail of blond hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants. A glimpse of a tattoo on his hip, peeking out from his pants, catches your attention.

“What’re you starin’ at?” he asks, grumbling as a very evident blush creeps across his cheeks and ears.

“You.”

With a derisive guffaw, he plucks the cigarette from his lips and tucks it safely behind his ear. With a shake of his head, he pulls down the sheets and comforter, still attempting to wrangle drunken you into sleeping. “See, I knew you was off ya face, babe.”

Ignoring his laughter and attempts to tuck you in, you sit up stubbornly, swaying for just a second, and gesture to the tattoo peeking out from his pants. “What’s that?”

“Well, there’s these things called tattoos, y’see, and --”

“Oh, _fuck youuuuuu…”_ With an irritated groan that’s only half-pretend, you snatch up a nearby pillow and fling it at him with all the strength you can muster. Which, considering your inebriated state, isn’t much. He easily catches your weakly thrown projectile and flashes a wicked grin as he tosses it back to you. Hooking his thumb into the waistband of his jeans, he tugs them down a little to reveal the tattoo hidden beneath. It’s an amateur stick-and-poke of a little smiley face. The eyes are X’s and the mouth is a curved into a wide, sharp-toothed grin. There are cartoon explosion effects surrounding it.

“Did you do that yourself?” you ask, tearing your gaze away from his hip to look up into his eyes.

“Nah. Got it in prison.”

Your eyes widen. “Prison?? What’d you go to prison for?”

“Ain’t you a little stickybeak tonight?” he says with a giggle. “Was for killin’ a man. Or maybe it was five? Time gets a little fuzzy if I try to think back too far,” he replies, airily waving his hand. The tone of his voice suggests he’s talking about cricket statistics or the weather in Numbani this time of year. Without offering any further explanation, he turns from your bewildered expression and moves around the room, shutting off excess lamps and fishing a lighter from his jacket pocket. When the room is dark save for one lamp on the bedside table, he returns to your side and sits on the edge of the bed. With his hands cupped around the dancing flame, he lights his cigarette, takes a long drag, and looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

You haven’t moved the whole time. You’re frozen, staring at him in abject horror and confusion.

“Christ, I’m just fuckin’ with you,” he says, exhaling smoke, and his brow knits together in a way that suggests he’s concerned for your mental faculties. “Shit, darl, how much _did_ you drink? That asshole really gave you a lot.”

Blushing furiously and hating yourself for believing his ridiculous stories, you clumsily get to your feet and wrestle your shirt off. It’s easier said than done, especially with your drunken limbs fighting you the whole time. When you’re at last free of the offending garment, your hands move to the buckle of your belt, but you lose your balance and pitch sharply to the side, nearly crashing into the nightstand. Jamison’s prosthetic hand darts out and immediately latches on to your hip to steady you.

“Oy, you’re gonna break your fuckin’ leg,” he snaps, scowling and pulling you between his knees by your belt. “What the fuck are you doin’?”

“I don’t wanna sleep in my clothes, it’s not comfy,” you mumble, turning to face him with an apologetic puppy dog expression.

“You’re really pushin’ it tonight, sweetheart,” he mutters through lips pursed around the end of his cigarette, and guides your hands to brace on his shoulders. When he begins unbuckling your belt, your heart skips a precious beat or two, and the warmth that suddenly blossoms across your cheeks has nothing to do with alcohol. Despite his insistence on not fooling around, he looks to be fighting himself. For just a moment, you think maybe he’s going to lean in and kiss your stomach as he eases you out of your skinny jeans. Then the moment passes. You gratefully step out of your jeans. His hands linger on your hips for just a second too long, before he allows them to drop.

“Thank you.”

Awkwardly, he clears his throat, jaw muscle jumping, and looks up at you with those fiery eyes of his. “Go to sleep before you make me heart give out.”

Does he mean in the sense that he’s attracted to you? Or does he mean that he’s concerned for your safety? Maybe he’s just frustrated with your general state of inebriated. Best not to ask right now. Wordless and reluctant, you climb back into the bed and burrow beneath the comforter and sheets. There’s room enough in the generously sized bed for him to join you, but will he? There’s another bed, and he’s the one who booked the room. He must’ve planned to sleep separately. Hopefully, you peek out at him over the sheets.

“Give us a sec, fuck’s sake,” he says, taking another drag from his cigarette before extinguishing it, tapping the smoldering end on the red metal of his prosthetic arm. Head tilting back, he exhales a plume of smoke and regards you with half-lidded eyes. That squirmy, pleasant feeling in your chest resurfaces as he stares at you in silence. Like he’s trying to read your thoughts, or maybe make a decision. After several seconds of staring, he places the half-finished cigarette onto the nightstand and cards his fingers through his drooping mohawk, barely taming the nest of unruly hair. With a deep sigh, he at last joins you beneath the blankets. The pair of you face each other, settling into comfortable positions. There’s several respectable inches between you, and he seems content to leave it that way.

“Can I have another kiss?” you ask, innocently batting your eyelashes up at him.

His expression remains unamused, and he rolls over a little to turn off the last remaining light. The room is bathed in darkness and he returns to facing you. “Go to sleep. You’re gonna have a fuckin’ doozy of a hangover tomorrow.”

With a disappointed huff, you roll away, turning your back to him. He gives a quiet chuckle at your petulance, and suddenly lean arms pull you backward into his embrace. Warmth from his chest radiates through you, filling you from your fingertips to your toes like hot water fills a tub. With a soft sigh, he buries his face against your shoulder, his lanky arm draping itself over your midsection. His lips leave a trail of soft, nearly imperceptible kisses across your skin, sending electricity sparking through your veins. Even as you lay comfortably curled against him, his heartbeat steady and comforting at your back, sleep continues to elude you. No matter how hard you try, you can’t get your pulse to match his. You shift a little, burrowing deeper into his embrace, desperately seeking a sedative to calm your thoughts.

After several seconds, you speak up. “Sing me something,” you ask quietly, and you feel him jerk in surprise.

“What?”

“I can’t sleep. Sing me something,” you say again, and there’s a long moment of silence as he contemplates your request.

“I don’t know any songs,” he says softly, sounding rueful. A few more seconds of silence pass between you. “Oh, fuck, wait, maybe I know one,” he adds, and he starts humming a soft tune that you don’t recognize. Words, uncertain and quiet, steadily grow from the humming, and he’s soon singing a rough but soothing melody in your ear.

“Take away the sensation inside… Bittersweet migraine in my head. It’s like a throbbin’ toothache of the mind, I can’t take this feeling anymore...”

Your body relaxes in his grasp, lulled by the sound of his voice. Sleep claims you fast this time. The rest of his song, if he even kept singing it at all, is immediately lost. Your dreams are peaceful and easy -- no nightmares invade your mind, not tonight.

You awake the next morning in bits and pieces, your consciousness fighting against sleep’s irresistible embrace. You’re first aware of the mattress shifting beside you slightly, and then someone -- Jamie? -- speaks, but the words are distant and muffled and hard to make out. With a quiet, wordless noise of assent, you drift back off to sleep. When you finally awake fully, it is with a pounding in your head like nothing you’ve ever experienced, and a pained groan. Eyes opening just a crack, you lift your head slowly, like it’s full of heavy stones, and look around the room.

“Hey, you’ve joined the land of the living at last,” says a voice that is just a little too loud, and the edge of the mattress beside you dips as Jamison sits on it.

Wincing, you roll over on your back and throw your arm over your eyes to shield them from even the dim light of the hotel room. “My heart beat is too loud,” you groan.

“Here, since I know your liver’s shit,” he says, and something cold and slightly damp is pressed into your hands. It sloshes as you turn it clumsily, trying to decipher this mysterious object. It’s a bottle. Squeezing your eyes shut to keep out any light at all, you quickly unscrew the cap and sit up a little to take a sip. Gatorade, and it’s your favorite flavor. How did he know that? You’ve only ever been hungover around him once before, and definitely not this badly. Slowly, you recap the bottle.

“...Thanks,” you croak, cracking open one bleary eye to look at him. “What time is it?”

He grins. “About 2 in the arvo.”

“Fuck, check out was at noon.”

“I went ahead and paid us through another night,” he says casually, getting up from the bed and crossing the room to retrieve his smokes from the pocket of his coat. As he pulls out one and places it between his lips, he turns back to you with an impish smirk. “We had just enough cash leftover, and this is the last of it… I don’t suppose you’re hungry? I could go out and get us some quick brekkie if ya want, maybe something light like donuts and coffee? Or we could splurge and order up a proper room service and get some bacon and eggs and --”

A low, horrified groan escapes you as your stomach lurches unpleasantly. The very idea of food has you practically retching. You grab the covers, yank them over your head, and roll a few times to burrito yourself in them. Jamison gives a high-pitched giggle in response.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say. Dingo’s breakfast for you, then.”

Eyes squeezed shut tight, you listen to him light his cigarette and move around the room, quietly taking drags as he aimlessly paces about. Is he waiting for you for you to get up, or is it just his natural restlessness? Impossible to tell for certain. Instead, you try to remember the night’s events, but your inebriated memory is spotty at best. You remember being grabbed, and Jamison coming to your rescue... You glance down at yourself and realize with a start that you are in only your underwear. Had he undressed you? Your cheeks grow very warm at the idea.

From beneath the covers, you clear your throat. “...Last night, um. Did-did we --?”

He cuts you off, almost too sharply. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, um. Y-You did… kiss me, though.”

You pull down the lip of your blanket burrito just enough to let your eyes peek out. You meet his nervous gaze. “I didn’t,” you reply flatly, and his expression turns sheepish. Embarrassment strong enough to kill wells in your chest.

“Well, I mean. Technically, _I_ did the kissin’,” he says, and he looks momentarily stricken by the admission, but quickly soldiers on. “B-But you were… really beggin’ for it, sweetheart.” He winces as he realizes that this, in fact, sounds much worse. His cheeks are distinctly pinker now. “You wanted more but I-I knew you was wasted, so I just put you to bed.”

“...Fuck, I’m so stupid.”

He blinks, and a slightly hurt expression comes across his face then. Awkwardly, he clears his throat and averts his gaze. Now his cheeks are _definitely_ red. Shoving his prosthetic hand into his pocket, he takes another long drag from the stub of a cigarette in his lips, and finally forces a grin at you. He flicks the spent butt in the nearby garbage can. “Yeah, I knew you had to be completely mental if ya wanted to kiss ol’ Junkrat.”

“No,” you say, sitting up too fast and sending the world spinning like a top. You groan, clasping your forehead with both hands as you wait for the room to fall still, and he darts forward. Concern in his eyes, he perches on the edge of the bed beside you, a comforting hand placed on your shoulder. For a few minutes, the world swims and lurches around you. He stays beside you the whole time, asking if you needed a bucket every ten seconds until you push him away and straighten a little.

“I didn’t… didn’t mean that I regret _kissing_ you. I regret not being able to _remember_ it. I wanted that first one to be nice and instead… I embarrassed the shit out of myself,” you explain through clenched teeth, and vigorously massage your knuckles into your throbbing forehead. Jamison is quiet, and although you can’t see his face, you can practically imagine the look on it as he puzzles everything out.

“...Oh. Well hey, I mean… let’s just forget about it. Say it didn’t happen, ey?” He jerks his hand in the empty space between you, gesturing vaguely, and pulls an exaggerated face that reads ‘no worries’. “Pfft, wiped it from me memory.”

A little laugh escapes you and you meet his gaze. “That’s probably not hard…”

“Hey, you shut your gorgeous face, I’m trying to be chivalrous here,” he retorts sharply, shooting you a playful scowl. A beat of silence, and his confident smirk melts into a nervous but hopeful stare. “So, uh. First kiss starts now, officially. I mean, that is to say if. If you still want to. You were pretty hammered last night and I figured it was just the whiskey talkin’, like how I get when I’ve had too much whiskey and -- mmph!”

Waiting for him to stop babbling is never going to be an option, you realize. In your impatience, you grabbed the sides of his face, and yanked him down to your lips. Caught off balance by your sudden pull, he pitches forward, pressing you back against the mattress. Both of you fumble and twist awkwardly for a moment or two, feverishly attempting to find a comfortable position, lips never once leaving the other’s. Soft sighs and moans escape you both in equal measure as the kiss continues on. His hand slides behind your neck, warm and rough, and his sharp canines drag gently against your lower lip.

When your lungs ache and beg for air, you pull back an inch or two, breathing hard. Jamison swallows, nervous eyes searching yours for acceptance. With a little smile curving your lip, you cup his jaw gingerly, fingertips rasping across his stubble and avoiding his purpling bruise. With a soft hum, he turns his head a fraction to press a kiss to your palm.

“Better this time?” he asks, peering at you from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, much.”

He grins against your palm, and leans up on all fours, eagerly capturing your lips in another kiss and then another, and another, until you giggle uncontrollably under his onslaught. If not for the resurfacing ache in your head, the kisses stolen from his lips would lead to more, as he had predicted the night before. The kisses go from sweet and chaste to decidedly not in record time, and it isn’t long before you’re desperately seeking the warm press of his body to yours. In your enthusiasm, you tilt your head a little too sharply, and make the mistake of audibly wincing.

Immediately, he freezes.

“Noooo…”

He withdraws a little, an insufferably knowing smirk curving his lips. “Ain’t gonna have a shag now, babe. Not with your noggin in this state,” he says softly, even as he drops his head and brushes soft, electrifying kisses along your pulse point. Jamison Fawkes, you _asshole._ You tilt your head to one side as his lips trail kisses down your shoulder, and your fingers curl in the sheets. Now if only the room would stop spinning so you could fuck him without getting sick.

“I feel fine,” you say in an _almost_ believable tone.

“Really? ‘Cause ya look close to hurlin’,” he replies, lifting his head and grinning so wide you catch a glimpse of both gold teeth..

As he speaks, the world suddenly reels, and you squeeze your eyes closed in an attempt to make it settle where it should. Abruptly, your stomach lurches like you just went down a sharp dip in a roller coaster, and you feel like the floor in a men’s truck stop toilet. Recognizing the signs immediately, Jamison quickly moves out of your way, and snatches up the wastebasket just in time. Patiently, he sits beside you on the edge of the bed and holds back your hair as your stomach regurgitates its contents into the trashcan. When you finally finish retching and spitting, he replaces the wastebasket in your hands with the bottle of gatorade. He whisks the basket away, and returns moments later.

“Fuck,” you groan, unscrewing the cap of the bottle and taking a little sip.

“Better just take it easy today, sweetheart,” he says, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles around your back. “We got time.”

With an angry little huff, you lean heavily against his shoulder and close your eyes. Chuckling, he pulls you closer with his prosthetic arm, presses a kiss to your temple, and tucks your head beneath his chin. You’re already starting to feel better. A shower and maybe a little hair of the dog and you’ll be right as rain.

After a long moment of silence, Jamison speaks up. “...I’m starved.”

“UGH.”


End file.
